


Don't Threaten Me With A Good Time

by Fudgyokra



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Fantasizing, Gen, M/M, Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy, Tentacle Dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 09:30:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14053974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fudgyokra/pseuds/Fudgyokra
Summary: What he had now was this bed, the dirty sheets and the blood-stained mattress upon which he lay.





	Don't Threaten Me With A Good Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [telveka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/telveka/gifts).



> This took forever, but I said I’d do it! >:3c So, have some masturbating tentacled Zsasz for your viewing pleasure. Takes place mid-S3 and will probably have a sequel…eventually.

Nowadays, the Penguin was on the hunt for mayoral majority and Mooney was lost to the wind. Victor had taken time to consider the facts of the case along with the implications it brought forth, but eventually decided it wasn’t worth the brainpower. It didn't really concern him, anyway, that Oswald was the boss now. He could accept that.

His lone guard was at the entryway on the story below, and the only thing Victor could hear from his perch in the attic was grunting and yelling. Unmistakably, they were the sounds of someone going down in pain and in torment. It wasn’t until the scene quieted completely that he realized his man had won the brief scuffle, but at the price of his own life.

They were just supposed to guard this place until tomorrow, when Oswald could swing by himself to dredge up what he needed from it, but it appeared the mission was a failure. If someone had already discovered its location, more were bound to follow. Victor was certifiably useless as a right-hand man when Oswald found out, and, knowing him, he’d catch wind by the time the sun rose, if it even took that long.

His compatriot’s death left Victor alone in the building now, in a dusty attic to boot.

By himself in bed tonight, then; no ill-paid guard to keep him warm, to extend his humanity beyond the little scrap of what it actually was. Only himself with his skin, his bones, his long-damned hands trailing down his chest and over his ribs to find some semblance of purchase.

Deep down he knew all he ever had to his own name was the cold metal of a gun, the hard whip of a leader's voice. But now he was _free_. There was no mission left, and no one would come looking for him until morning. What he had now was this bed, the dirty sheets and the blood-stained mattress upon which he lay.

Out the tiny window, the polluted sky of Gotham glowed.

His hand inched along the expanse of his right thigh, just to tease. The touch promised things to come that he could not promise, but all he knew is that these could’ve been his last hours, and Gotham's moonlight was all he had to go by. Perhaps that was enough.

The implant he’d learned to live with wriggled between his thighs, calling attention to its deep mauve personage. It couldn’t be helped how the wet, writhing organ threaded between his fingers of its own accord before he could think of any consequence that might stop it.

There wasn’t much left in his memory before the incident, not before his anatomy was made less human and the wiring in his brain less sensible. What it wanted was either blood or pleasure, and often enough these days those things seemed to overlap.

He wrapped his dominant hand around himself, sighed at the friction of flesh on flesh, of warmth on warmth. Faintly, somewhere in his brain, he registered an image of gelled hair, long, wispy eyelashes, and a pink mouth.

He didn’t contain the soft moan that escaped under his breath, hardly a call of his own voice. The way he tensed was equally as involuntary. His elbows dug into the bedspread and his toes curled while his calves flexed hard against the sheets beneath. _Not him, you idiot. Think of someone else._

Though the visage of Oswald Cobblepot was endearing in his own toddling little way, Victor told himself it wasn’t necessary to continue to daydream—it had been a long day after all, and this was almost the best stress relief he could think of. While it took backseat to the cold metal and harsh click of a gun, the grime and filth of blood-stained skin and broken teeth, it still doped him up nicely.

He could hear himself sigh into the air as he thought of the two bodies on the floor below, still warm, still soft to the touch.

All he could feel was fire, making his eyes roll back into his skull and his grip tighten on the tentacle protrusion at his pelvis, hot and slick as it was. The slightest touch was a core-reaching kind of relief that he hadn’t anticipated when he’d inadvertently summoned the Penguin’s image to his mind.

The dark purple of the protrusion, almost black and nearly formless in the dark, wetted his fingers and made them twitch, tighten, and squeeze in succession. He stroked up and down along its length, let the soft rubbery feeling glide across the pads of his fingers.

The tip flicked with a wet snapping noise. It gauged his impatience, urged him to lower two fingers to his hole, still sensitive and open from the night before. _That_ , of course, was a thing of the past now that his current fling no longer had a pulse, but the thought didn’t really bother him.

He didn’t hesitate: Contrarily, he pressed the fingers in, felt the muscles loosen and swallow down all they were offered. The lamp in the corner flickered in time with the relieved groan he gave, which he doesn’t try to quiet. There’s not a reason to. Penguin’s not peering over his shoulder with expectance, although he can’t help but picture the face he’d make if he had been. Surprised, disgusted, or otherwise, with his mouth open in a scandalized little ‘o’.

Victor grinned into the canvas of his pillow, moved his free hand up and over his length again, placates its needy wriggling with a tense grip and slow pace. He doesn’t want to overdo it. No, he wants to build up to it.

Sometimes he can’t stand the bratty kingpin, but other times he grunts his name into the darkness as he pictures the man sitting beneath him, ankles crossed over one another like he doesn’t give a damn. In this vision, Victor’s riding him raw on that stupid, ornate chair of his—the one he uses to make himself look taller, more like the boss while he sits at the head of a table full of crooks.

Sure, Victor will let him play boss.

 _“I didn’t say to stop—”_ he imagined Oswald would say.

_“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”_

It might have been humiliating if Victor didn’t love the burn of it all. A little guy who thinks himself ruler, a proud bird of a man, making his fearsome assassin bounce in his lap.

Victor can see it: He’s stripped to bare skin, but Oswald’s got everything on, tie and all. He’s done up and pretty, but his hair’s a mess because Victor’s got his hands in it, and maybe Oswald indulges him with a kiss and gets those spry, bony fingers around his cock, watches it squirm for him and comments on it as often as he can.

 _“Look at you,”_ his vision says, _“so wet for me.”_

And, _oh_ , he is. It makes a lewd, sloppy sound when he picks up the pace and starts jerking, hard, under thin cotton sheets. His back arches and it takes all he has not to roll his hips down onto his fingers like some wanton whore.

The fantasy’s gone, but what he has now is even better. It’s the pressure, building and biting at his insides. He can feel himself dripping all the way from tip to base, down his balls and coating the fingers he’s got inside himself, and it feels positively filthy but he’s dealt with that since the part got installed in the first place. He counts his lucky stars he can still feel anything at all.

And he _can_ feel it. He felt it unfurl and prepare for release, and he knows he can make himself stuff the feeling down and try for something longer-lasting, but he threw away his patience instead and gave in, watching as it twitched and pumped fluid through the slit, leaking all over while he pants and mutters something that might have been Oswald’s name over and over until the swelling sensation in his abdomen relaxes, leaving behind a pleasant ache.

With a grunt, he collapsed onto his back and retracts his hand, sticky and wet and damning.

He’s usually not so off his guard, but when a voice suddenly comes from the doorway, a bolt of panic travels straight to his heart. He shot up to find his bodyguard, very much alive, albeit bloody, standing there with a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Havin’ fun without me tonight, eh?” he joked. “Although I guess you’d rather have Mister Penguin—”

Annoyed, Victor dragged his pistol off the end table and was met with a nervous, “Woah, woah! I won’t mention it again!”

Victor smiled. Sugar and spice and all that; he’s told it makes him scarier. “Oh, I know you won’t,” he said, right before sending a bullet straight through the guard’s skull. “Can’t talk when you’re dead.”


End file.
